Chapter 39
Leo
It’s dark now.
I can see them finishing their dinner through the glass doors at the back of the house.
I’m figuring out how to get to her, to talk to her, but it’s gonna be tricky.
Cos of him, and this new lady. They’ve been taking their time – with their white wine and Smeg fridge and massive fucking fish – but time is now something I don’t have much of.
The shakes are getting bad, I feel like my brain is gonna splinter and I swear the devil from the gravy came into the shed with me.
Which is why I relocated to the bush by the fence in the garden.
I saw its little face watching me from the corner of the roof, all dusty now, and mean, whispering stupid shit. Laughing.
The police are gonna get you, Leo.
I’ll tell them the things you’ve done.
Come. Into my arms.
It’s safe here, baby boy.
I slept though. I fucking slept. Feel a bit more with it now.
A bit clearer. If I can just tell her what’s happening – tell her the truth – I might get a bed.
Food. A shower. Tell her I just need to lay low for a few days.
Talk about what’s next. About what happened.
Talk about getting to meetings. A sponsor.
Maybe some proper therapy. That’s what she said would work.
I’m fucking ready.
I am.
But this Ronan guy. There’s something not right about him.
I mean, I’m not exactly the best person to judge, but there’s something in him that I recognise.
I know this kind of man. I do. He’s got this power.
This fucking charm. I can see it through the glass.
It’s so bright. A gravitational pull that’s covering something.
I know it, cos I feel it draw me in. I wanna know what’s there. Underneath. Danger. It spikes my brain.
Takes one to know one, I suppose.
The way he looked at her, on the porch, two weeks ago. I keep remembering it.
I need to get her on her own. I need to do it soon. It’s getting fucking freezing.
I watch them cleaning up the kitchen. At first I thought this new woman was his mum – cos of the way she looked at him, all lovingly, throwing her head back and laughing at everything he says. Then I saw her face properly – and she is Mallory but older.
It’s her mum.
I’m watching Ronan. Watching him pour himself a massive glass of whiskey, then kiss Mallory on the back of the head.
She turns to him and smiles, then he takes the glass of whiskey and leaves the kitchen.
After a minute, the light goes on in the window up in the roof.
Must be their bedroom. I can see him through it, texting on his phone. He pulls the blind down.
That’s him out of the way. Just the other one now.
Then I can get Mallory’s attention. She keeps washing up, and her mother is sat at the little kitchen table behind her, staring into the fruit bowl.
She keeps looking up at Mallory, but it’s dead weird, cos every time Mallory turns round, she pretends she’s not and looks back at the bowl, picking at a pineapple.
Then she moves. She stands and comes to the window-doors. Shit. I pull myself back a bit, further behind the bush, as she stares out into the garden. Then the shutters close.
I wait. Dunno what to do now.
That’s not good. I can’t detox in the shed on my own. I’ll be fucked.
Come to me. I’ll look after you.
Nope. Not you, you fucker.
I look up at the back of the house, squinting through the dark. There’s a window open. Up on the second floor. That could work.
Come back to me.
No.
I move – fast – along the garden, hugging the bushes, across the patio, past the chair and table set and a weird bird bath.
I pause at the wall. Wait. Listen.
Drainpipe.
I start to pull myself up it. Feel like my stomach is gonna fall out my arse, crawling up the side of a house to escape the devil, but I’m at the window pretty quick – woah, it’s fucking high!
I’m gonna vom – can’t vom from here... Just get inside!
I put my foot onto the window ledge and pull myself across, holding onto the wooden frame, and look through the glass.
A light is on. A bed is made. An unopened suitcase is on top of it. Flowers are on the bedside table.
This is where the mum is staying.
Gonna have to be quick. I lift my leg and yank myself through the gap.
Can’t be loud, can’t be loud. OK, this angle’s not great, not great at all.
Head first, it seems – yep – down into the room – slow, slowly – sliding forward – ow, fuck – the fucking window latch cutting into my stomach.
Hands out, down, and I’m onto the floor, in a little heap.
I stop.
It was not exactly balletic. But there was no noise.
I feel a bit buzzy. Might vomit.
I wait again.
Pause.
Listen. I can hear Ronan pacing around on the floor above me. A low murmur from down below in the kitchen. I stand and walk to the door, then clock the suitcase again.
Could be something in it. Something useful.
I unzip the side of it, and slowly lift it open.
Loads of folded clothes. I start rooting through – nope, nope, nope – then see a little wash-bag.
She might be nuts in the head too. Let’s see what she’s got.
I open it: tissues, toothbrush, toothpaste...
And then, the meds. Bingo. God, she’s got a right fucking collection here.
Pill salad. Amlodipine. No. Calcium. No.
Vitamin D. No. Citalopram. Hell, no. Omeprazole. No. No benzos. Fuck.
Take the whole fucking lot, Leo.
‘Fuck off.’
Nope. Don’t speak. Do not speak to the devil.
I zip everything back up, making sure it looks as neat as I remember, and go to the door.
I open it as quietly as is humanly fucking possible.
I wait, listening. Massive hallway. I look up and down it.
Hanging glass lights that look like something from a Dickens book.
The coving by the roof is all twirly. It starts to spin and twist, like snakes.
Jesus.
I blink, to stop it. I see the door at the bottom of the hall, on the left. A bathroom? I creep along the hall, trying not to make any creaks, then open the door.
I fucking knew it. She does have one of those massive standalone baths with feet.
I kind of want to get in it.
Drown yourself.
Nope, nope, nope.
I push the door shut gently behind me and go to the sink.
I look at myself in the mirror. Takes me a second to recognise the reflection.
Holy fucking shit, I do not look good. I suddenly see little horn marks, burning into my forehead.
I blink. They disappear. I nearly instinctively punch the glass, then I see it is a cabinet.
A mirror cabinet. I push it so it clicks and swings open.
The first thing I see is the mouthwash. Listerine Total Care.
Total care. I pick it up and look at the back: 21. 6% alcohol.
Do it.
No.
Do it.
I quickly sift through tooth picks, hand wash, soap, cotton wool, razors, fluoxetine, mirtazapine, and then see what I am looking for. A packet. Prescription.
Lorazepam. 1 mg. Mallory Maddox.
For use when experiencing anxiety and panic attacks.
This’ll do it. In the detox places, they gave me one an hour, to help me come down safe.
I place two on my tongue, and swallow.
A noise.
I spin my head to the door.
Footsteps.
On the stairs.
Shit. Shit.
Mallory, or her mum, or both, coming up.
My brain stalls. Fucking come on. Get it together.
I can’t go out the window in here. It’s locked.
Then I see it in the reflection, behind my head.
A massive cupboard. Double slatted doors.
I put the sheet of tablets in my pocket and the Listerine bottle back in the cabinet, push its mirror-door shut, turn, tiptoe over the tiles and pull open the cupboard door.
I’m hit with heat and the smell of something beautiful and clean, like a warm meadow.
There is a boiler in the middle, towels and bedding all folded on a shelf above it, and below, a space.
I kneel down, get in below the boiler, push myself to the back, pull the doors shut.
I wait, listening. I can hear them.
‘Night, Mum.’
‘Goodnight, Mallory.’
Then Mallory’s footsteps. Up to the attic.
Shit. She’s gone up – to him. Not good. Oh my God, it’s really fucking toasty in here.
I can hear her mum coming down the corridor, to the bathroom.
To me. Shit. I hear the bathroom door open and hold my breath, watching through the gaps in the slats.
She goes to the mirror and looks at her reflection.
Stands there, looking at herself. I know I’ve had a benzo but it feels like she’s doing it for a really fucking long time. What she’s doing?
Can she see me?
Can she fucking—
No. Wait.
She’s crying.
She’s actually crying.
She turns the tap on and starts washing her hands, scrubbing at them, then splashes the water over her face. It’s all a bit swimmy, a bit blurry. She sniffs. Once. Twice. Turns towards me. Frowns. Looks directly at the slatted doors.
Shit.
Can she smell me? Is that what’s happening?
Then she shakes her head. Turns away and wipes her hands on the towel hanging by the sink. She exhales slowly. Then leaves.
I sit under the boiler, blinking. The light from the hallway cuts through the slats. Every time I close my eyes it’s still there, imprinted, white slices in the dark. OK. What now? Back to the shed?
The lorazepam is hitting.
I can feel it pulling at me. Can’t stay here. Can I?
I start to drift. To slip. In and out. My head against the wall.
It’s so warm. The smell of the washing powder is nice.
Makes me feel all safe. I start to see things.
In my mind. A field. Flowers. I feel warmth, on my face.
Can hear things, too. Birds. Waves. Fucking waves.
The sea. Am I by the sea? Keep jolting awake, then back to sleep. I’m on a beach. It’s fucking lovely.
I hear another noise.
A door opening.
It’s all hazy. I look out through the slats.
Dunno if I’m still dreaming. Dunno what’s real.
Because it’s not her this time. It’s him.
Ronan. Topless. Just in his boxer shorts, standing in the middle of the bathroom, flexing his muscles in the cabinet mirror.
He has something in his hand. His phone.
He pulls his boxers down. Then he bends forward.
I hear the sound of the camera on his phone.
Clicking away. Then he leans forward again, pulling his kecks back up.
All blurry. All swimmy. I watch him scanning through the photos he just took, smiling to himself. Then he sends it to someone.
I stare at his face in the mirror. His chiselled jaw. His freckles. Green eyes. He smiles to himself, like he thinks only the sink and the mirror will know. Bathrooms must have a lot of fucking secrets.
Then he’s gone.